


Grit Your Teeth

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Character Study, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, First Time, Hand Jobs, Love Confessions, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Supernatural Elements, Very seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24441019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In the lowest drawer of the bookshop desk, where he had been stored by the angel for safekeeping, Gritty waited. Gritty waited for a time when Aziraphale would need him. As the world hurtled ever closer towards its Ending, that time was drawing nigh.**A recounting of the day Aziraphale finally needs Gritty.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50
Collections: Anon Works





	Grit Your Teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [True Gritizens (Talk About Their Feelings)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24435148) by [Princip1914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914/pseuds/Princip1914). 



> this will make NO sense if you don't read the previous work. Also its wild. I'm only a little sorry.
> 
> enabled by the GO-events discord

Sometimes, after the world didn’t end, Aziraphale thought back to that strange night. Crowley painted orange as a flame, falling over himself in strange jubilation. 

Aziraphale had always known how Crowley felt. It had been etched in every action, every word for hundred of years. But Crowley had never said it before that night. He’d never said it because Aziraphale had made it clear that they  _ couldn’t _ . It wasn’t about wanting. Of course Aziraphale wanted. So many things. Things he couldn’t have. Things laid before him in orange body paint and a shaggy mask he didn’t recognize.

It was Crowley’s words that night that Aziraphale kept coming back to. _I love you ssssso terribly angel, Ssso much, you’ve no idea, not a day goes by I don’t think about it._ The world didn’t end and Crowley never said it again. He was still careful with Aziraphale. Still accommodating. And Aziraphale knew the truth. 

He wished he could say it, broach the topic. But he’d never been as brave as Crowley. He sat in the bookshop in the evenings, admiring his friend from a safe distance. He gazed longingly across tables, spent nights wondering at the texture of his skin, tore himself to bits wishing he was stronger, better, more like Crowley.

Months passed and it was summer and Aziraphale was stuck. He tried to find ways to distract himself. He turned to his books, hoping somewhere he would find the inspiration he needed, just the thing to allow him to say the words. Finally say the words. 

He was at his desk. It was Saturday. He was reading (re-reading)  _ A Winter’s Tale _ and feeling very down. A case of the morbs as the Victorians would say. 

He looked out the window above his desk and sighed. It was a gorgeous day, sun shining, people on the streets. He missed Crowley. It wouldn’t be too much of a hardship to pick up the phone and call the demon. They saw each other all the time. Asking for a walk in the park would be normal. Expected even.

He turned in his chair to look at the phone and a flash of orange caught his eye. Strange. His desk drawer was open. He hadn’t remembered opening it. 

A wide, white eye stared up at him, a strange, split mouth in the shag of an orange mane that defied description. 

_ Hello, Aziraphale. _

Aziraphale blinked. He reached down and pulled the mask from its hiding place. Two eldritch eyes met his.

_ There is power inside me. Power you need. I will give it to you. _

Aziraphale swallowed hard and passed his hand through the thick fur of the mascot head. A shock of static ran up his fingers, twining around his very bones. 

_ You must come inside me and I will help you. _

With bated breath, Aziraphale lifted the mask. It was heavy in his hands, sacred as the holy grail. A chalice from which he could drink deep.

He slipped the mask onto his head. His heart hammered against his ribs. He hadn’t felt this way in years. The closest he could liken it to was flying, soaring above a city, wings beating at his back, lifting, lifting, lifting.

The bell of the bookshop tinkled. Tendrils of demonic powers spread through the bookshelves, warm and familiar and loved.

_ Crowley _ .

Aziraphale turned and Gritty met the demon’s eyes.

Crowley froze as Aziraphale rose to his feet, propelled forward by the feeling inside him. The power. The confidence granted by the mask.

“I never said it back,” Aziraphale said. His voice should have been muffled by the material of the mask, but it rang through the bookshop, clear as the bell that had just rang above the door.

“Aziraphale? What are you doing?” Crowley asked. His hands were out before him, fingers splayed. Supplication. It was the response Gritty deserved.

“I love you.” Aziraphale’s voice was rough. Gritty.

Crowley sucked in a sharp breath. “I thought—”

Aziraphale couldn’t bear the short distance between them.  _ Move forward, Aziraphale _ . 

Feet moving without conscious thought, Aziraphale pulled Crowley into his arms. He tucked his masked face into the crook of his neck. He curved one hand around the sharp arch of Crowley’s hip and thrilled at the wonderful heat that spread over his palm. “I love you,” he whispered again, carefully slipping his fingers under Crowley’s shirt.

The pleasant static Aziraphale had felt since donning Gritty flowed through him, surrounding his very atoms, tingling at the tips of his fingers. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked again, a barely there breath, and Aziraphale dipped his hand into his waistband.

“Let me show you.”

Crowley sagged in his arms and gasped as if they were already tangled together in a soft bed somewhere where the sheets stayed cool and everything was entirely, always perfect. 

Aziraphale passed his hand over Crowley’s fly and the button popped open, the zipper dropped. He would have never used his powers for something like this before and yet Gritty gave him the strength. Fifteen minutes ago, he would have been terrified to do this, afraid of every movement, his own inexperience, but with Gritty, he was strong.

He dipped his hand into Crowley’s trousers and stroked him through the fabric of his pants. His hips thrust forward, chasing Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale growled, a sound he hadn’t made in all of his six thousand years. It rumbled through his chest and echoed in the mask.

Crowley gasped his name when he finally slipped his hand into his briefs, wrapping it tight around his hard, heated length. Crowley swore and Aziraphale slicked his hand with a miracle. He had done this before to himself. He knew what felt good, and with Gritty guiding him, he was certain he could bring Crowley pleasure.

It was with the just right twist of his hand that he had Crowley spilling over his fist, Aziraphale’s name on his lips. It was everything Aziraphale had ever dreamed. His body tingled with vicarious pleasure.

The anxiety and fear that Aziraphale expected after finally touching Crowley never came. He knew he had Gritty to thank.

Crowley led him upstairs and when, finally, they stood in his bedroom, he placed his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s furred cheeks. “Can I?” he asked, gold eyes incredibly soft. Heartbreakingly so.

Unable to speak for fear of what would come to pass when the gritty-strength left him, Aziraphale nodded. 

The mask was lifted from his head and he sucked in a breath as Crowley set it aside, nestled between Aziraphale snuffboxes atop his dresser.

Nerves tangled once more in Aziraphale’s stomach, cold and painful. But then Crowley kissed him and everything else disappeared. He let Crowley back him onto the bed, careful hands undoing his clothes. 

Two eyes, gaping holes, a rictus mouth, watched from atop the dresser, waiting and knowing he would be needed again.

Someday.

**Author's Note:**

> i've posted anon so as not to spam my subscribers with this very weird thing but if you want to read more of my less gritty content you can find me at [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/works)


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